


don't worry much

by captainharkness



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Comfort, Communication, Discussions of self care, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not As Dark As Tags Imply, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Recovery, emphasis on the comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:07:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28002885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainharkness/pseuds/captainharkness
Summary: For Séamus, luxury had never been fine china and fancy food, it had been comfort.
Relationships: Seamus Finnigan/Dean Thomas
Comments: 6
Kudos: 40





	don't worry much

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written this pairing before but I got a sudden burst of inspiration, as well as a desire for some plotless, domestic, indulgent fluff.
> 
> I write Séamus' name as above, simply because it's closer to the original Gaelic and I prefer it. Pronounciation remains the same!
> 
> Title taken from Cause You Got Me by MOSES, which I've adopted as my themesong for Séamus and Dean - it really is perfect for them.

Growing up, Séamus had known luxury. 

It was in the garden at the back of his parent’s house that flowered every spring in a mess of pink and white and green and orange. It was the piles of food at every family gathering. It was the admittedly lenient hand his parents raised him with, as the youngest of four siblings.

For quite some time, luxury was something he’d taken for granted, until he hadn’t. Until his bones ached and his skin burned to touch as the cruciatus curse tore through him, day after day. Until he left the warmth and comfort of his dorm bed and slept on a hammock in a hidden room, scared to shut his eyes lest the growing number of kids under his watch needed him. That year was behind him, far behind him. But sometimes, just sometimes, a bad dream left him shaking in his bed, or the deafening sound of a muggle car backfiring had him ducking in the middle of the street, or a stranger reached into their pocket and his wand was in his hand before he realised, ready to defend himself.

Sometimes, he realised that three years wasn’t long enough between him and the war.

He felt selfish for it, because he’d gotten off easy. He hadn’t been on the run for a year, like Harry, Ron and Hermione. Like Dean. He hadn’t lost a brother, or a parent. He hadn’t died.

His eyes fell on the strange satellite that hung above his bed; dried lavender in a tiny glass vial, a bundle of silver-grey sticks, a small blue shell, and the skull of a creature he could never remember the actual name for. It was a little morbid and noticeably discordant with the rest of the interior of the flat, but it was a gift from Luna not long after they moved in. She claimed that it aided sleep but Séamus was unconvinced. Mostly, it served to remind him of the occasionally profound nuggets of wisdom she left in her stead.

_ “You shouldn’t feel guilty for surviving, Séamus,” _ she’d said sagely after he’d confessed just that to her, stirring her tea,  _ “No matter how much it hurts, it wouldn’t compare to how people would feel if you’d died.” _

Dean, the sap, had turned his back on them and busied himself with cleaning the kitchen, and neither Luna nor Séamus called him out on the tears on his face. 

He carried it with him everywhere he went, the idea that it was better to mourn the dead than resent the living. And the days where the dreams and the fear taunted him, where he jumped at his own shadow and snapped at anyone who looked at him, he took hold of that life with both hands and forced himself to revel in it.

Because, for Séamus, luxury had never been fine china and fancy food, it had been comfort.

With a sigh, he let himself sink further into the bed, shutting his eyes and letting warmth and familiarity wash over him. 

Their bed was, in reality, ludacris. It was an absurd expense, but they’d both agreed that it was a worthy one. Piled high with three different mattresses and stuffed with pillows and thick duvets, it filled nearly the entirety of one half of their flat.

(It should have been in a separate bedroom, but Séamus made the fatal error of falling in love with an artist who’d pestered him about  _ open plan _ and  _ natural light _ and  _ breathability  _ until he’d agreed to let Dean knock the bedroom wall through; Séamus had been belligerent about it until the first time he’d gotten to watch him cook breakfast in just a pair of low slung joggers from bed, then curled up and watched Match of the Day together.)

More than anything, it was Séamus’ comfort space. The wide window spilled warm light for most of the afternoon over the covers, the skyline of London visible even with his head rested on the pillows. The weather was just starting to cool, so they’d pulled the extra thick duvet from the cupboard. Séamus felt like he could sink into it and never come out, just stay forever in the warmth and the lingering smell of Dean’s aftershave.

“What on earth are you doing?”

Séamus blearily opened his eyes, smiling, “I’m cozy, piss off.”

Dean laughed, leaning against the wall, “It’s like three in the afternoon, why aren’t you at work?”

“Boss closed up the shop early, we were dead quiet all day,” he replied, stretching. His body felt lethargic under the warmth of the bed, and his back let out a satisfying crack that made Dean wrinkle his nose, “Get in.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

Séamus gave his best pout, “No, get in. Please?”

“Séa, I have to get down to Arnold Street to develop these photos, I can’t just…” Dean trailed off, wistfully. Séamus stuck his bottom lip out a little. “You’re a nightmare, you know that?”

_ Probably, yes _ , he thought. Dean was a bit of a pushover, especially when it came to him. A fact that Séamus exploited mercilessly, and had done since they were kids. It was hardly his fault though, he conceded, watching Dean shake his head as he undid his jeans, all 6’4 of him sliding into the bed beside him, and was reminded instantly and almost viscerally just how much he loved Dean.

He brought the scent of chilled air in with him, hands viciously cold where they immediately wrapped around Séamus’ shoulders, but he fit so perfectly in the space underneath him. Despite the shock of cold, he felt himself relax, all the tension he’d been carrying around with him melt like butter. 

Dean pressed a kiss into the crown of his head, “Everything alright?”

Lacking the language to properly articulate that he was fine, except for how busy and loud everything was, how he’d dropped his coffee cup in the morning and the sound had set him on edge all day, and even though his boss was a perfectly friendly man in his mid sixties who hadn’t been mad about it at all, Séamus had still flinched every time he’d called his name for the rest of the day, he simply said, “Yeah, of course.”

“Sure?” Dean muttered, thumb rubbing over the nape of Séamus’ neck, “I never find you in here in the middle of the day if you’re okay.”

“Really, I am,” he insisted, words a little muffled by Dean’s chest. And he was, it was true. He was as alright as he was ever going to be, for a little while, “Just one of those days.”

Dean made a noise that sounded halfway between agreement and suspicion, but he still dropped it, instead just ran the tips of his fingers up and down Séamus’ back. He knew that it would likely get brought up again later, but that was fine. That was Dean. Dean, who leaned heavily on his family after the war, just because he wanted to, and they let him. Séamus loved his parents, his brothers, the whole Finnigan family. But they lacked the warmth that Dean found easily in his mum, his step-father, his half sisters. Dean liked to talk about it, Séamus had other ways of dealing with his issues.

In the beginning, the first few months they’d lived together, raw wounds from fighting brushing up against each other, they fought like cat and dog over it. The more Dean pushed for them to talk, to bare their emotions to each other, the more Séamus resisted, uncomfortable with the idea of having to put words to the things inside his head. It took weeks, months, circling each other, negotiating the tiniest interaction, before they found a middle ground. Steadily, Séamus learned to express himself without just blowing up in a fit of frustration or rage, and Dean found ways to read the signals Séamus gave, often without realising it. The routines and the habits he fell back on when he needed them most.

Three years later, they just got it.

Séamus pressed closer to him, nuzzling into his neck. Dean hummed contentedly, arms coming around him a little tighter. It was almost uncomfortably warm under the covers, both of them pressed skin to skin, but he couldn’t bring himself to move away. The thought left him feeling strangely discomforted, like he’d be missing part of himself, which was stupid, because he’d been laid in bed for almost an hour before Dean had even come home.

Somewhere in between the contented press of Dean’s mouth to his head, the softness creeping in at the sides of his vision, they both drifted off. It was a hazy kind of sleep where he wasn’t sure if he was really awake until Dean stretched both his arms out with a groan.

“I really do need to go to the studio,” he muttered, a hand appearing in Séamus’ hair almost as consolation, scratching at his scalp, “Luna is bumping my article from the October issue to September, and it’s due to release next week, so I really need to get these photos to her by tomorrow.”

“The one about the five most haunted alleyways in London?” he asked, amused. 

He shrugged, “She liked it.”

“So did I,” Séamus assured him.

“Are you going to be alright if I pop out for a bit, then?” he said, “I’ll only be gone an hour, tops.”

Séamus huffed, “I’ll be fine, Dean.”

He smiled, “Yeah? You sure?”

“Shut up and kiss me if you’re buggering off,” Séamus griped, but Dean just grinned and aquiested, kissed him sweetly, cradling his head and pushing him onto his back. It wasn’t something he thought he’d ever get used to, the kind of determined affection Dean kissed with, like he was trying to press actual emotions into his mouth through sheer willpower. The kind of kiss that made him breathless and more than a little bereft when it ended.

He laughed as Séamus chased his mouth, kissing him once, twice more before settling back on the bed, happy and self-satisfied.

Dean looked down at him, face split wide with a smile, “I love you.”

“Sap,” he replied fondly, “I love you, too.”

He watched him get dressed, scrubbing a hand through his hair and giving another full body stretch that almost made Séamus beg him to get back into bed.

“I’ll pick dinner up from the Greek place on my way back,” he said, slinging his camera bag over his shoulder, “See you in a bit. Don’t move,” he added warningly.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he smiled, settling back into the pillows and the covers and the warm, soon to return to the arms of the love of his life, and confident in the knowledge that he was untouchable in his soft cotton fortress.

**Author's Note:**

> Séamus truly said: my love language is *`~ naps ~ '*
> 
> I'm perfectly happy to take suggestions or prompts, especially for less represented pairings like this, so if you've got any ideas for oneshots/fics, do feel free to pop them into the comments. I always love to hear your ideas!


End file.
